“But Mama—”
“Now,” she said severely. “For once, you will do as you’re told.”
Glory’s bottom lip poked out. Her expression went from bewildered to sullen.
Maggie would deal with hurt feelings later. She herded her daughter down the beach, Hypatia following in their wake. She was all too aware that Rhys Jones remained unmoving behind them.
A thrill of fear shot up her spine, her heart thudding with unwelcome knowledge.
I may have won this skirmish…but the battle has only begun.
5
Two nights later,Maggie paused before the door of the Flag and Mast’s finest suite. She looked this way and that. She’d worn a hooded cloak to conceal her identity, but there was no one to see her in the shadowed corridor, and no one had seen her climb the back steps to this private wing of the inn.
Memories of her shameful exit down those wooden steps nearly a decade ago flooded her.
Buck up, and do what you came to do.
Still, she hesitated. Had been hesitating ever since she’d received the imperious summons this morning. Scrawled in a bold, masculine hand, the note had been short and to the point:
I’ll be waiting for you where we had our last meeting. Midnight. Don’t be late.
She’d been strongly tempted not to come. To ignore Rhys Jones’s command. But knowing him, he wouldn’t leave her be until he’d had his say, and she didn’t want to risk another public encounter with him. Tonight, she would make it clear in no uncertain terms that she wanted nothing to do with him. That this meeting would be their last.
Raising her fist, she knocked on the door before she lost her nerve.
Her heartbeat measured out the moments before the door opened. Rhys filled the doorway. He was in his shirtsleeves, his silk cravat tied in a loose knot that had probably taken his valet hours to perfect. His forest green waistcoat, which had a subtle paisley design, fit like it had been sewn onto his lean torso. His trousers skimmed the long, muscular contours of his legs. She caught a whiff of his scent, a blend of sandalwood and clean male musk.
Instant, mortifying awareness quickened her blood. She kept her shoulders back, her gaze level.
He bowed and stepped aside. “I wondered if you would come.”
“You left me little choice.” She swept in, glad that the wobbliness of her knees didn’t show. When he closed the door, she pushed off the hood of her cloak.
Ignoring her barb, he said with a charming smile, “Make yourself comfortable.”
He gestured toward the sitting room, which boasted a cheerful fire and matching striped chairs, a cozy woolen rug upon the floor. A feast had been laid out upon the table, which was set with two places.
She didn’t budge. “We can talk here. Whatever you wish to say shouldn’t take long.”
He studied her for an instant before drawling, “If memory serves, you and I didn’t make it past the entryway the last time, either.”
The memory scorched through her: her lips fused to his, the desperate, sizzling hunger. Everywhere he’d touched, pleasure had bloomed. His hands had framed her hips, lifting her against the door, and suddenly she’d felt his hard, thick flesh driving into her. Invading her, pushing the air from her lungs. He’d surged into her again and again, the stretching burn fading as her core liquefied with bliss…
His footsteps broke the spell of the past. He’d gone ahead to the table and was filling glasses with wine. Huffing out a breath, she followed.
He held out a glass to her.
“None for me,” she said. “I must insist you state your business.”
He sipped his wine before saying, “Is Gloriana mine?”
Although she’d prepared herself for this eventuality, the directness of his question took her aback. The years of refining her composure came to her rescue.
“Howdareyou, sir.” She prayed the quiver in her voice would pass for indignation. “Gloriana is my husband’s daughter. The child of a gentleman. For you to suggest otherwise is an insult.”
He looked at her. She returned his stare. Ruddy color rose on his lean cheeks, and she didn’t miss the flash of relief in his tawny hazel eyes.
